At The Foot of the Throne
by monanotlisa
Summary: An ancient artifact. A group of fanatics searching for it. A city at the precise point where two continents meet...and our heroes right in the middle of it all.
1. Default Chapter

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* * *

__Title_: At the Foot of the Throne 

_Written For:_ Yahtzee in the WowWrongBadHot ficathon

_Spoilers:_ vague ones up to 4x13 "Tuesday"

_Requirements:_ will be added at the end of the story

_Thanks to: _Psychopepsquad and Elise2 who made it all possible.

_A/N:_ Far below

* * *

Simple.

That's how it should proceed: Fly in, assemble according to plan, and complete the mission objective.

Ancient artifacts he's familiar with after all, even though this one isn't connected to a medieval Italian genius. Finding it is not the tricky part, discretion and pacing are. He's dealt successfully with some of the most delicate and dangerous tasks; this one, albeit introducing a new variant, still consists of all available factors--some classified to him alone--to be weighed against each other. Apart from the one grand miscalculation he can't bring himself to regret, rarely has there been any deviation between his (carefully constructed) theories and his (equally carefully executed) practice. In theory, it's all simple.

And that's how it will proceed.

* * *

"Hamid Abd-ul Mustafa." 

Her father's perfect enunciation never fails to grab Nadia's attention. She regards the screen he's pointing at and is instantly embarrassed by her surprise to see not the dark, glowering visage of some stereotypical fanatic but the open, wide-eyed face of a pudgy man with a receding hairline.

"Turkish national, member of a traditional, wealthy family. Rumour has it he came back from the hajj--the pilgrimage to Mecca--a changed man, having fallen in with followers of The Green Scimitar."

Dramatic pause; someone's cue. Out of the corner of her eye, Nadia sees Dixon's nod.

"A group of Sunnite Islamic fanatics with followers all over the Arabian peninsula; you may have seen their name in one of the last internal memos before: MI-05/013."

"The one highlighting the situation in Iraq and the return of Muqtada al-Sadr." Vaughn sounds alarmed, and even Nadia can't help but feel a slight twinge of anxiety. Terrorists are their daily fare, but most of them deal in arms, drugs, intel, and not quasi-religious propaganda. She's found the gleam of utter and immutable faith far more terrifying than the glint of greed, hatred, or lust she's seen in the eyes of her respective agency's targets. But then, her personal experience didn't involve religion as such.

Arvin Sloane's voice cuts in. "Precisely, Agent Vaughn. Like Al-Sadr and other militants attempting to topple the fragile democracy in Iraq, The Green Scimitar are religious extremists; only the rift between the Sunnites and the Shiites has prevented a more stable collaboration. Unlike them, they are spread out all over the Middle East and therefore threaten the relative peace and stability in Iraq _and _elsewhere. Unlike them, _they are not yet active_. Agent Dixon?"

"The Green Scimitar believe in the power of_ tabarukaat_, Islamic religious relics. They are shown respect and veneration by some, but the Green Scimitar believes powerful blessings can be gained from them. Greatest among them is the ring Prophet Mohammed wore on his right hand, later sealed in a box made of the wood from the palm tree in Medina." Dixon looks over at her father. "According to them, it can be utilised as a means for gaining the ultimate victory, so once it is found, they will rise up and strike at those whom they consider puppets of the infidels."

"Which constitutes pretty much every Middle Eastern regime." Drier than dust in the desert: Jack's voice.

"The government has no interest in such an attack." Her father makes it sound as if the alternative was a theoretical possibility. Nadia feels just a little unwell; she doesn't need to turn her head to see the same unease reflected in her sister's face.

"In 1633, during Ibrahim I's Caliphate, the _tabaruk_ was taken by an Ottoman _imam_ and carried to the capital of the empire where it still lies hidden. The Scimitar, however, have no infrastructure in Turkey, not to mention they lack resources."

"But Hamid Abd-ul Mustafa has them." Sydney doesn't need more intel to draw conclusions that make Arvin Sloane nod. "He is planning to do the dirty work for them, and try to find the _tabaruk_ to turn it over to the Scimitar."

"Yes, Sydney. Obviously, we must find the ring first."

For some reason, Marshall is valiantly trying to suppress a grin and now mouths something in her direction. For a moment, Nadia is perplexed--until she realises Sydney has most likely given him just the same sort of puzzled scrutiny. His answer, as far as she can tell, involves the words "mount" and "doom."

She can't help but smile, a little.

"Nadia."

Slowly, she straightens, looks her father in the eye.

"Sydney. You two will retrieve the _tabaruk_ We have to work with the utmost precision. There is no margin for error."

Sydney's soft cough sounds faintly like _Is there ever_. But, when Nadia turns her head, the familiar expression of rebellion she expected to see is, happily, absent. Nadia loves her sister more than she ever thought possible, but that doesn't mean it's not difficult to accept her fathomless loathing of Sloane.

"Vaughn and I will provide strategy and the technical details in the background." Jack, calm and authoritative. "Our plane for Istanbul leaves in seven hours. We'll be briefed _en route_. Let's go."

* * *

Ortaköy is delightful in spring. 

Apart from a few more international chain stores, the quarter looks just as Nadia remembers. Sydney and she stroll through the narrow, pebble-stoned streets, past trendy little cafés and crooked old shop fronts until the old city path leads them to their destination.

"So this is it?"

An old Ottoman mansion in clear view of the river. Without stopping, the sisters walk by.

"Yeah. This used to be the residence of the _imam_'s family, according to the intel, anyway." Sydney idly rummages through her perfectly accessorised purse--Istanbul girls? Nothing if not fashionable--but her eyes behind horn-rimmed sunglasses are fixed on the building. "Let's hope the prayer room is still intact."

"Well, it's not likely that the new owners have sealed it with cement."

"Who knows, with plans from the turn of the century--the one before the last." At Nadia's slightly confused glance, her sister sighs apologetically. "Sorry, I don't mean to be unprofessional, and a party pooper to boot. It's just--" she bites her lip, "the hunt for a cleverly hidden object believed to be part of some powerful endgame played by a bunch of madmen sets my teeth on edge."

They keep going, Sydney clearly waiting for some sort of reaction, but Nadia finds that, all of a sudden, the tiny imperfection in the nail polish of her right thumb is endlessly fascinating. It's clear to see where her sister comes from: an endless quest with a terrorist cell, the CIA, an ageing Russian diplomat, and the CIA-slash-terrorist cell again. Nadia just wishes that sometimes, Sydney could see where her little sister comes from: a life without any family at all, one that makes it impossible not to view her father in a different light.

"Come on." She says, brightly, and walks a little faster. "We must get ready; it'll be dark soon." After just a moment of hesitation, Sydney follows.

* * *

He's used to the quick look Vaughn gives him, the one that is equal parts deference to his superior, respect for his senior agent, and wariness toward the father of his girlfriend. Jack approves of all three elements. He nods curtly. 

A button is pressed. _Intercom connection established_.

"Phoenix, do you copy?"

"Copy. Our position?" Syd's voice, calm and steady, from the depths of the building in front of which their ancient Mercedes with tinted windows is parked.

"You're clear. Have you located the prayer room?"

"Yes; the door is--"

Metallic sounds, a creak. "--open." Sydney still, but after an instant, the second line crackles to life.

"Evergreen to base: Old-fashioned lock opened with corresponding key as found at hook next to lavatory niche."

Unbidden, Nadia's face in his mind's eye.

He's seen footage of her (not all of it from their APO missions). She's good, of course, she's Irina's and Arvin's child; but he rather appreciates she realised with one quick glance that an old key might belong to the relevant door on account of it hanging in a niche for ritual washing prior to prayer.

A few steps that resonate through the comm link. Marble, solid stone? Then, a faint buzz, pleased murmurs.

"Scanned for hollow spaces, successfully so. Evergreen looking for an opening mechanism."

Jack finds himself waiting for another triumphant transmission from Nadia. Listening to her rustle in the background, he stares at the two external surveillance screens.

Suddenly, movement, and more.

"Raptor to Shotgun and Evergreen. Suspect activity on the grounds; two unidentified persons approaching the building from the river. Finish the operation now."

"Copy that," but not a second later, Syd hisses, "no---there is no box in there."

Vaughn perches forward, brow creased. "Clarify: It's empty?"

"As far as we can tell." Jack can _hear_ Sydney's frown. "There are not even imprints in the dust; someone must've removed it ages ago."

Nadia's voice now, puzzled but determined: "Wait--it's true, it seems to have been empty, but it's too flat to have stored a box."

Flat. Not the storage space they expected. Jack snatches the microphone.

"Raptor to Evergreen. Remove the dust particles. Proceed with caution."

"Copy that--ah! I can see something; stand by."

"Raptor to Phoenix, two more uninvited guests have entered the premises through a window to the garden diagonally across the building. Guard the exit route but avoid any contact."

"Copy." Fast steps out; Jack hears Vaughn's urgent chatter to Sydney over their comm link.

"Evergreen to Raptor. It's...a map etched in the rough stone beneath the floor. A round structure by the river surrounded by--got it! Galata Tower! And there is another sketch with a marker."

"Can you memori--"

"Done. And yes, I'll try to deface the drawing."

Sydney's voice interrupts them, sharp and clear. "Evergreen, they're headed straight in our direction. Abort; I'll cover you."

"Copy that."

A click; he can hear her running down an unseen hallway. She would've disconnected now, linked only to Vaughn with his guard of the inside of the house.

"There's Syd; okay, we'll make it."

He softly exhales a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Jack? Sorry."

Radio silence now, but it's just as good. He wouldn't have known what to reply.

* * *

After their narrow escape, they ride to Galata Tower. Nadia wonders if, in her report, she can sum it up by stating that operatives Jack and Sydney Bristow argued about the mission and its preparation. 

A lot.

In all likelihood, this is more about Jack as Sloane's partner involved in the planning stages of the mission than Jack as a senior operative _per se_, but it still isn't pleasant. Vaughn agrees---whenever their eyes meet, he looks as if he's sitting on a bed of nails rather than in a car, one that oddly reminds her of the older cars once so popular in her native...well, not native but home country.

Perimeter downstairs cleared (it's amazing what a hastily created "Decontamination Area--Rat Poison Alert!" sign at the door to the staircase can do), they enter while Vaughn takes the lift to the top floor with its nightclub and restaurant to equally adorn the stairway entrance.

Not even halfway up the stairs, Sydney stops abruptly.

"Nadia, you're sure you've memorised the position of the marker correctly?"

She knows she has but keeps her temper in check--it's not her, Nadia, it's not her Sydney's annoyed with. She straightens her back and steps closer, closer until she is standing next to her sister. Who stares at a blank stone wall.

"I am--the marker pointed to the foot of the second flight of stairs."

"But you said it looked like a doorway."

"It did; but it was rather small. Maybe it wasn't to scale and just meant a niche? An alcove hidden in the wall?"

Syd nods and crouches down, her fingers expertly running along the edges where floor meets wall; Nadia quickly follows suit. Just stone smoothed out; it's her sister who utters a hiss of satisfaction.

"There's a hole."

Nadia stoops low. True enough, there is. Tiny, almost like a keyhole, half-hidden behind a ledge.

"Want to try it? Or do we assume a snake is guarding it from the inside?"

A joke, just a joke, but Sydney is not amused. "I don't much care for booby-traps of any kind. Nadia--"

"It's okay." Before Sydney can react, Nadia sticks her finger into the hole experimentally, not without a slight thrill of fear. The right course of action would be to stick to protocol and try to evaluate the situation, but protocol also dictates being flexible in times of necessity. Both the Galata Tower staff and Mustafa's goons may be here any minute; there is no time for lengthy recon.

She can feel something give; an audible clicking sound emerges. Suddenly, it's child's play to pry out one of the bottom stones--

Another drawing, not even a map.

"The silhouette of a mosque." There's an edge to Sydney's voice. "This, in a city of a hundred mosques."

"What is this, in the bottom right corner?"

"Two tiny towers? Two pillars? Ah, I got it--"

"Tombstones!"

For a heartbeat, the sisters are grinning at each other. Sydney tucks a strand of her hair back pensively. "The cemetery of Süleymaniye Mosque with its twin tombstones; I've seen the photos."

"You're right--that's it. I've been there once, an acquaintance of mine... Anyway, let's go!"

They do, but not before smashing the stone surface--not a minute to early. Above them, there are urgent voices, footsteps hurrying down.

They make it, though; Jack in the front seat listens to their quick account intently, and when Nadia searches the rear-view mirror, she meets his dark eyes fixed on her.

She looks down quickly, and lets Sydney finish their little report.

When they reach the cemetery, Vaughn and Jack leave; their trace covered for now, they have to be back at the headquarters located in the port at the heart of the bay.

Despite the darkness still covering them--has it only been four hours since it all began?--they don't need to look very too long to find twin tombstones the exact shape of the ones in the sketch. They are foreign to Nadia but have the grace to be distinct even in the unsteady light of a torch.

Slowly, Sydney crouches down and stares at the larger headstone, slim and high, bearing the coiled curves of Arabic script.

"Can you read it?"

She isn't used to Sydney being this tense, or taciturn.

"No. I can speak enough to get by, but... We'll have to abort this task."

Nadia hears her own tiredness and frustration in her sister's voice, and lightly puts her hand on her shoulder.

"Let's head off. After we've informed Jack and Vaughn, we'll use this payphone across the street and establish a secure line to APO."

"I see. Well, Atatürk's introduction of the Latin alphabet was a fairly recent development."

Sydney purses her lips, but Nadia is faster, more hurried, and stands right in front of the receiver.

"It's okay, you couldn't know about this becoming a...scavenger hunt through ancient sites."

"Yes, you could. What happened to the utmost precision with no margin for error?"

Sydney's voice is cool and collected; odd how it still manages to send a lance of heat and anger through Nadia.

Her father may or may not have felt the same, but his tone is completely matter-of-fact.

"Sydney, I apologise for overlooking the extent of this task. I do not, however, apologise for pulling you off this mission. Report back with Vaughn in Bebek; your part will be taken over by someone who reads Arabic."

Sydney is standing close enough to touch; impossible not to notice the low hum of barely controlled fury beneath her skin. Her mouth is so close to Nadia's ear that Syd's sharp exhalation of breath is a tiny explosion.

Nadia has always been dexterous. Now, she covers the microphone and Sydney´s clenched fist in one fluid movement.

"Please, not now."

Sydney´s eyes lock with hers and soften a little. She's a professional, after all. She nods almost imperceptibly and, when Nadia uncups the mike, simply breathes "accepted."

Nadia is starting to relax when Sydney, half-turned away, speaks up again.

"Dixon knows Arabic, but he didn't come to Istanbul with us. May I ask who will replace me?"

Arvin Sloane's answer does away with her tranquillity.

"Your father, of course. Jack."

* * *

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* * *

Author's Notes: _

1. I thought long and hard about including Islamic extremism in a piece of fiction; thus utilising a concept of the enemy and simplifying such a complicated issue isn't something I'm very comfortable with. (Why yes, I'm German. Seriously, I feel a bit like authors during the Cold War period conveniently coming up with new dastardly plans by teh evil Russians.) Still, I disliked the thought of adding another run-of-the mill terrorist or criminal mastermind we'd never heard of before even more.

2. So, I've researched the locations and issues but am sure I've run roughshod over one or the other essential detail. My apologies; all remaining mistakes are my own.

3. Apart from the standard Qusţanţiniyye used by Arab writers, one of the names the names the Ottomans gave to Istanbul was_Pây-i takh_t, "the foot of the throne" (Persian).

4. Feedback of any kind & length is craved like a junkie craves heroin.


	2. Chapter Two

* * *

They meet at the edge of the park. She's early, she realises; she has the time not only to check the perimeter, but also, despite her lack of sleep and the early hour, to marvel at her surroundings. The slanted light of morning is turning the reddish walls of the Hagia Sophia a soft orange; the glow of colour, the four spines of the minarets, even the oddly softened arcs of the main complex recall countries far beyond the Bosporus. She's reminded of how, in a city like this, culture and history do not form a straight line from past to present but layers upon layers, some translucent, some opaque, many obscured by what lies above or beneath.

And there he is; even from afar, she can make out Jack in the thin crowds as easily as she would spot a circling hawk in a flight of pigeons. Maybe it's the firm line of his shoulders, or the purpose in his step--as much as she admires his proficiency, she cannot imagine Jack ever looking completely inconspicuous. Even now, he doesn't look like an Istanbul citizen strolling idly through his city, but like a man on the way to an important meeting.

What will the passersby think they are? Colleagues? Father and daughter? It sends an odd thrill through her to think that they might consider them lovers; it's not unusual, especially not in this country, for a man to marry a much younger woman.

Nadia squelches the thought.

"_Günaydin_," he says--the extent of his greeting.

Nadia lets herself to smile at him. Simply getting into character--that's all it is. Just two citizens meeting casually and easily. Simple.

"_Günaydin--nasilsin_?" Not just a formality, for once; she does wonder how Jack is doing. During the remote briefing, her father had informed Sydney and her that they were to leave the premises lest they draw attention to the Süleymaniye cemetery, and Nadia was to meet Jack at the Hagia Sophia, halfway between the headquarters and the Süleymaniye Mosque. Of course, he hadn't shared Jack's opinion on this turn of events.

She'd wanted to be able to claim that she hated to be temporarily separated from her sister after they'd always made such a good team, but Nadia doesn't much like lying--neither to herself nor the ones close to her. In her experience, lies tend to resurface in times when they can pose the most danger. Neither the streets nor government service are merciful when it comes to such mistakes.

"Shall we go?" Jack has stepped a little closer, searching her face, and Nadia nods, feeling a bit foolish. Hardly time or place to ponder past and present. "You seemed absent for a moment."

His Turkish is good, Nadia notes; he doesn't make the mistake of transferring the linguistic melodies--or lack thereof--of his native tongue but speaks this language with the proper inflection, the right temper. And a louder tone of voice.

"Just a stray thought. Okay, the tour bus stop over there?"

Jack follows her line of sight. "I assume it will lead us straight to Süleymaniye Mosque."

"Yes. According to the timetable, the one I chose leaves in three minutes. We should have five minutes to stroll over."

He glances at her and nods before he turns in the right direction. Now it's Nadia's turn to blink and wonder if the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth was just a trick of the diffused light.

* * *

The bus isn't overly crowded, a fact for which he's grateful. Easy to conceal almost anything in a dense, swirling mass of people. Once, not far from Saigon, he had seen a crowd of approaching villagers suddenly part to reveal a young Vietcong aiming a rocket launcher straight at them. It was only thanks to Arvin, whose aim was better, that he lived to tell the tale.

Not that he ever actually told it.

"Jack?" Nadia, her voice soft enough not to be heard just one foot away. "We're inconspicuous as long as no one talks to us, but in case this happens--what is our legend?" Her mouth barely moves, a valuable skill; only the slight tremble of her lips would betray that she's spoken at all.

He raises his eyes and his voice and, in Turkish, tells her: "We'll find Roxelane's grave, don't worry. I've always told you how vital it is to learn about your proud heritage. I'm pleased your strange reporter job finally led you to something useful."

She smiles, sunlight illuminating the dusting of freckles on her nose. "Not only useful but well-paying; the Canberra Times didn't just come up for all expenses but also increased my bonus." Tosses her hair, leans back cheerfully. "Only fitting; it is the big feuilleton summer feature, after all."

He's just about to respond when there is movement in the aisle next to Nadia; suddenly, the seat isn't empty anymore. Jack's muscles twitch of their own volition, but it's only a lout in a department store suit who gives Nadia a toothy grin and leans over with unsolicited familiarity.

Clearly, the worst thing this boy will unleash is the force of a deplorable pick-up line. Jack relaxes and lets the Sig slide back into the holster under his jacket.

"You're quite the big summer feature, yourself."

Nadia seems to agree with his earlier assessment as she slowly turns her head.

"_Tesekkürler_--thank you. Now, would you excuse us? My cousin and I want to finish our conversation."

The boy's grin slips only a little. "I promise you can, in a minute! I overheard you're a sort of reporter, but can you honestly tell me you wouldn't like to be a model instead? My agency is always looking for beautiful, gorgeous girls just like you!" Generally, Jack considers tenacity a virtue, but he will make a specific exception.

"Yes."

Satisfaction glittering on the tanned face. "Oh, I'm glad you're taking this unique opportunity--"

"Wait."

And he does, slightly taken aback by his own immediate compliance.

"I meant: Yes, I can honestly tell you I wouldn't like to be a model instead of a reporter."

"But..." an appraising glance in Jack's direction. Jack simply stares back. He remembers Nadia during their interrogation session, her particular attitude when beset with unwelcome questions. If he were a different man, he'd probably pity the fool.

"Well. Then..." the boy scoots back, glances at Nadia again. Muttering what might be an apology, he quickly stands and walks to the other end of the bus, not looking back.

Nadia seems as pleased as he secretly is. Leaning forward, she gives him a small, conspiratorial smile. "Our stop."

They quickly exit the bus, make their way toward the gardens, and let themselves be separated from the tourists flocking to the main attractions--the courtyard, the mosque with its cascading golden domes. Only then does she turn to him with a flourish and a grin, wide and carefree. "Interesting cover that my new partner comes up with."

New partner. Jack finds he likes the sound of this. Still, the question begs to be asked.

"_Cousin_?"

"It's completely possible, biologically--a few years to one side, a few years to the other." He's seen this expression of mischief before, but he hasn't ever been privy to its charm. "After your performance, it was either that or the stereotypical uncle. Cliché, don't you think?"

"Clichés work well for cover stories."

Her face falls a little at that, and her expression grows more somber. He feels a twinge of regret; moments like these make him realise how shockingly young she is underneath the spy glamour.

Nadia is nothing if not adaptable, though. "I understand. I'll play it safer next time."

Maybe it's his fault; he could have come up with a scheme that placed them both in different categories. An artist and her mentor, for example. Of course, there are reasons for playing the journalism card--it is flexible and can open doors that would otherwise remain closed. Casting himself in the role of an older relative was brought on by sheer force of habit, though. It may be utterly necessary in countries further south whenever the part of husband and wife is out of the question, but it turns out to be rather obsolete here in Istanbul.

"We're here--it's the grave at the end of the row beneath the cyprus tree."

She doesn't head over there; instead, she makes a sharp turn and approaches the impressive mausoleums of Sultan Süleyman and his wife Roxelane. She rummages in her purse and takes out notepad and pen; window dressing at its best. "Just look around; I'll take a few notes."

Jack nods and walks a few more steps, stopping at the twin tombstones of _Kemil Orhan (sallal laahu alaihi wasallam), Admiral under Selim II_., fallen in 1571 at the great naval battle of Lepanto off the coast of Greece. Here, apart from the actual target down the row, he can surveil the surroundings and guard her--while it isn't likely someone will recognise the vivacious young reporter over at the grave of the Golden-Age sultan as the black-clad operative from last night, he isn't willing to take chances. The cemetery is teeming with tourists from Turkey and elsewhere, but this actually serves his purpose. Between dozens of noisy, camera-bearing, Lonely Planet-reading tourists, no one will notice him ambling over to a shadowed grave to read the inscriptions.

A few figures seem vaguely out of place in the old Ottoman graveyard--the garishly dressed mother with a stroller, the bearded, bulky man sweating freely through his black t-shirt, the wiry guy circling the tombs at the far end. No one seems to be paying any undue attention to Nadia or him, however. Good.

A shoot-out in the middle of a tourist site is not very high on his list of priorities.

Gravel crunches under the soles of his shoes as he slowly closes the distance to the tomb Nadia has pointed out to him. Slender and tall like the others, the outline of the headstone distinguishes it from the rest: it calls forth the outline of the Arabic letter A. Allah akbar--

the _imam_ was a God-fearing man who wouldn't have desecrated the grave itself in any way (no need for Jack to utilise the tools in the cemetery shed), so any and all clues will be found on either the headstone or the footstone.

The latter, as all of its kind, seems to be blank. It is unfortunate that in order to check for hidden signs, he won't be able to simply kneel down by the grave and pretend to pray. Forbidden to faithful Muslims, it is far too likely to rouse interest.

The inscription on the headstone, although weathered by age and the elements, is quickly deciphered, although he finds the translation takes him a minute. Hard to believe it's been fifteen years since he read and spoke Arabic in the field.

* * *

May ALLAH, merciful and compassionate, gaze at his faithful son Muhamad Haj Ali the Wise whose soul trusted and whose heart loved ALLAH; kind of nature, gentle of spirit, he adhered to QU'RAN and the five pillars of ISLAM in every place and at every time: Ever striving to hajj, give alms, abstain, profess, and pray: The glory of ALLAH made him turn toward the path of the righteous, heavenward like the PROPHET MOHAMMED, to see The Gardens of Everlasting Bliss, the Abode of Peace where no one other but the faithful marvel at the colour of eternity and the sublime beauty of Allah's Paradise as is hidden from the eyes and only revealed to whose inner sight saves them from the vicious circle of sin and damnation and godlessness and who alone will be called Faithful--

be reminded of where you are.

* * *

Good advice for the ones mentioned, but, Jack muses, not terribly helpful to infidels attempting to crack a hidden code. The latter would be easier if he had an inkling about the key.

"_Selam_." Nadia has reached him; her eyes are lingering not on the tomb but on him. Proper tradecraft. "I jotted down a few things on Roxelane. Did you know she was Polish--but of Russian origin--and, I quote, not renowned for her beauty?"

"Out of the harem, she managed to become the Sultan's favourite due to her intelligence, her talents, and her skill at intrigue, I recall. Great influence on the young Conqueror of Continents."

Nadia raises one perfect eyebrow. "How terribly romantic. The way you describe it, it was a game of wits rather than a...reverse courtship."

"Not quite. Do you know how she captured his heart, Nadia?"

"Afraid that wasn't in the brochure."

"She wrote him love letters."

The quick flash of pleased surprise on her face is oddly endearing, but she blinks, as if to clear her head, and nods, stepping closer. If he reached out, his arm would brush hers.

"Why I came over--you seemed...lost in translation. I was wondering if I could assist you."

Refreshing.

"You might. Was there anything other than the elements you already mentioned?"

Nadia frowns and looks away, past him, slowly scanning the cemetery, worrying her memories of a small sketch carved in rough stone. This, he knows, is hard; any clue would have most likely been in Arabic. Scripts to which the mind is completely unaccustomed aren't easily stored away, not even for those with photographic memory.

Out of her purse, she procures a notebook; its first page is filled with bullet points and Turkish words--he can make out "Roxelane" and "harem". Her font is a haphazard scrawl, not the feminine curvature he somehow expected after reading through the printed pages of her mission reports, which were animated and displayed an eye for detail.

"There was something that may have been an Arabic word in the upper right hand corner. Let me try to copy it."

Slender ballpoint scratching over the rough surface of the paper, he bends over the notebook. Over her. For some reason--one reason, in fact--, he is all too aware of the way her fingers move, that her tailored jacket slides back ever so slightly to reveals the line of her collarbone underneath the open blouse, the warm scent of her perfume.

"This?"

Undoubtedly an Arabic word, but it's written at tilted, stretched, awkward angles instead of the graceful, subtle arcs he's been perusing. Jack wishes, irrationally, that Nadia knew the language; he imagines she would master it with ease, read Hafiz's verses in the original version, perhaps. They aren't his favourite poems--he prefers Larkin--but strike him as oddly fitting for her.

Taking in his lack of reaction, Nadia hesitates, her hand slowing. Slowly, she looks up at him, frustration lingering in the curve of her mouth.

"I'm not doing it justice, am I?"

"It's not--" his turn to hesitate, "--illegible." At the expression in her face, he hastens to add, "Merely a challenge; even the ones familiar with Arabic often have trouble transcribing it."

Nadia snorts; there's no other word for it. She seems a bit embarrassed, and the smile she gives him is both rueful and self-deprecating.

"No offence, Jack, but you don't have to coddle me."

A flash of something else in her eyes; it's gone too quickly for him to examine.

He senses her discomfort, but to his relief, she doesn't draw away. Nadia, he realises, simply doesn't know whether or not she overstepped her boundaries by insinuating that he had just been too gentle with her.

Out of the question to admit to the latter. Equally unwise to reprimand her in any way; success depends on their smooth cooperation, after all.

It's Nadia who makes the first tentative move.

"Maybe the code key is simpler than we think; an _imam_ doesn't usually deal in espionage, after all."

Jack could tell her all about machinations at the Ottoman court during later centuries that lasted well into contemporary history. Instead, he simply nods.

"The culture of the Golden Age had certainly reached a high level of sophistication, but if we consider the fact that the safeguards we've encountered so far may have been numerous but anything but complex, this seems a valid assessment."

Speaking of safe--they are still too close to the target.

"We should leave the site."

"Of course."

They fall into step again, pass the architect Sinan's tomb and fountain of white marble, and come to sit on the stone ledge at the foot of the massive walls of the main complex; easy to keep an eye on the surrounding grounds from this vantage point. Out of earshot, tourists keep passing them; occasionally, they throw glances in their direction---at Nadia, naturally. It would be easy to recall days long gone when another woman by his side would catch the eye of men, but Jack isn't willing to let himself be emotionally compromised by shadows of the past.

Not now.

"My first mentor told me the first step to decipher the code was to guess the answer--it must be hidden in the medium, after all, and either follow its patterns or shape it accordingly."

Roberto Fox had taught her well enough.

"We'll find instructions of some kind. May I?"

She holds out ballpoint and notebook. When he reaches out and takes them out of her hands, he can't avoid brushing the skin of her fingers. Just a fleeting touch, but it is enough to send a thrill of awareness through him. Jack pulls back, attempting to focus on the words of the inscription still vivid in his mind--but then, they cannot possibly be more vivid than the expression in her eyes when he accidentally catches her gaze.

He focuses on pen and paper, on the task at hand.

Jack looks so earnest again, writing down the word of the inscription on the tombstone in his bold print, pressing the ballpoint just a little too firmly into the paper. There will be faint imprints even on the third page below.

Nadia knows there won't be any on her hand, but the spot of skin where he touched her doesn't seem to.

When he's finished writing down the translation, she is already going over the lines, counting, measuring; both content and style are unusual enough to keep her pleasantly occupied with things not Jack Bristow, senior operative.

"The bolded letters stem from the original inscription, don't they?"

"Yes." He, too, looks down. "They are merely marking terms of special religious relevance; the code key lies in numerology."

For a moment, she thinks of charts, esoteric calculations, the mystic numbers of ancient South American civilisations; this is not the angle he means, though.

"We have to look at certain words--not every other word but a different sequence? A shifting one?"

"A constant one." He flips the page and crosschecks with her questionable attempt to depict the Arabic word. "Perfection. Of course."

She looks at him without trying to hide her puzzlement. "That was the meaning?"

He just nods, and quickly starts underlining words:

_May ALLAH, merciful and compassionate, gazeat his faithful son Muhamad Haj Alithe Wise whose soul trusted and whoseheart loved ALLAH; kind of nature, gentleof spirit, he adhered to QU'RAN andthe five pillars of ISLAM in everyplace and at every time: Ever strivingto hajj, give alms, abstain, profess, andpray The glory of ALLAH made himturn toward the path of the righteous,heavenward like the PROPHET MOHAMMED, tosee the The Gardens of Everlasting Bliss,the Abode of Peace where no oneother but the faithful marvel at thecolour of eternity and the sublime beautyof Allah's Paradise as is hidden fromthe eyes and only revealed to whoseinner sight saves them from the vicious circle of sin and damnation and godlessnessand who alone will be called Faithful--_

_be reminded of where you are._

"At the heart of the place to pray, turn heavenwards, see the other colour of the inner circle, and . . . be reminded of where you are."

Still a riddle, but she has no doubt that this is the very message.

"Every _seventh_ word. A holy number in Judaism, Christianity...and Islam. Of course, then, it is, too, the number of--"

"--perfection." He looks at her, and she returns his gaze, oddly warm; it's not just the satisfaction of feeling the pieces click into place.

Or maybe it is just that.

"Jack--let's go inside, find the centre of the mosque, and crane our heads to stare at the ceiling to find the answer."

Following the outer walls, they enter the courtyard--surrounded by porticoes and endowed with an ablution fountain in the center--and, through the golden portal, the Süleymaniye Mosque itself.

Gold, colours, and so many sources of light--she remembers them now, from the stained glass windows over the hundreds of candles and brightly burning bulbs to the richly adorned walls reflecting each glint.

"Nadia?" He isn't willing to slow down even for a moment, his eyes scanning the room with a precision born from decades, gliding over the mihrap niche made of marble and decorated with tiles without seeing them, sliding off the calligraphic Qu'ran verses inscribed on the walls, lingering only on the other humans and, of course, the galleries over the entrance and on the sides. Her gaze is drawn there, too; but to her, they aren't just hiding places for potential snipers but reminders of the supposed place of women during worship. But she isn't here to fight that battle.

"Remember that we cannot establish any clear position in this place."

She's right by his side with one long step and looks at him with the cool gaze of perfect professionalism. "Copy that, Raptor. Proceed with mission objective."

She feels distinctly uneasy for the fraction of a heartbeat where Jack doesn't respond at all, but then he actually smirks, just a little. "Copy, Evergreen."

Past worshippers, they move to the middle of the beautiful prayer carpet. She looks around, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Yes. _This is the heart of the place to pray_."

As one, they look upward: a glorious dome adorned in gold, red, and blue. Jack nods. "The _other colour of the inner circle_. The innermost circle of decoration is blue and gold."

"Sultanahmed!"

"Bless you." His facial expression doesn't actually change, but by now she is starting to categorise all the subtle layers of meaning he conveys with just a glint in his eyes.

"Jack, it's the _Blue Mosque_, Sultanahmed: Gold as the colour of the Caliphate is found everywhere and not a distinguishing factor. Blue, it is. And the last part, _be reminded of where you are_, simply means another mosque."

"I agree. We should head over then. Nadia?"

On their way out, Nadia doesn't pay much attention to the lights or the galleries. She supposes it has to do with Jack's fingers resting lightly on her ellbow, steering her toward the portal with only the gentlest of pressure. She's never been especially sensitive with regards to being touched, but this is different; there is something both sweet and terribly proprietary about this gesture. It invokes far too many thoughts she shouldn't be havinge about an agent of his experience, but most of all, about the man he is. Only when they've stepped outside and into the shadowed portico, he takes his hand away. Oddly, it's only then that their eyes meet--

Nadia hears the strike before she sees it: The the singing sound of a club being swung in a wide arc. She instantly drops to the side and out of reach, frantically trying to pull Jack back, she,. She can't avoid being grazed by the blunt weapon, and pain explodes in her arm, makes her reel back.

"Nadia--"

Jack's voice breaks off abruptly, and she screams his name when she sees why.


	3. Chapter 3

Chloroform--

the only thing that could make Jack's head loll back like this, a puppet with its strings cut, folding into the hands of the three men.

_Three_? Nadia ignores the fierce pain in her arm and spins to turn to her single assailant, indignation overpowering the ache. He advances, club ready.

So is she.

High-pitched screams at the edge of her consciousness are reminders of the civilians surrounding them--no firearms now. But she can work around that, actually prefers it that way.

The club requires range to be effective, so Nadia closes in. It takes two strides--past the hasty jab at her body--to put the target within reach, one strike to fell him. Already, she's swung around, using her momentum to lash out at the man trying to shield the two companions who've grabbed an unconscious Jack.

A spark of light hits her eyes and alerts her to a brightly polished blade. Nadia's shoe connects with a wrist, sends a dagger flying, and makes the adjacent man cry out.

"_Anan cebi_!"

"Hardly; never even met her." Nadia gives him a feral smile. She pushes down the current of fear beneath her fury. Jack.

The guy dodges her punch, shifts, and lashes out immediately; when she recoils, he tries to sweep her off her feet. He has a street fighter's quick instincts, but she's been there, done it. Been it. Nadia side-steps him; while her front thrust kick isn't perfect, it's fast and fierce enough. The sound of an unconscious body hitting the ground resonates in the portico.

Two down, two to go, and the latter look pleasantly astonished.

Jack's limp form between them is an obscene sight, a violation Nadia itches to avenge. When she steps closer, they hesitate, gape at her; one of them grabs his companion's arm, mutters something Nadia cannot quite catch. She catches the bulge beneath the left one's thin jacket, though--a small firearm, maybe a Glock--and the rag drenched with anaesthetic in the right one's tightly balled fist.

"_Dikkat! Býrakmak!"_

Nadia freezes at the commands from behind. The police? She'd rather fight against felons than work with Istanbul's finest, but with Jack passed out, there is no other option. She lifts her empty hands, turns slowly.

Two of the mosque security guards approach them. She catches the wide eyes of the smaller one who clings to his baton. Nadia gives him a smile. "Don't worry, I have these two under--"

Something (another baton?) hits her temple, and the world fades to black.

White lights, bright and searing.

Jack squeezes his eyes shut again. The cool burn of metal on his wrists tells him he's chained, a subtle jerk affirms that the chains are tight. He feels nausea, a side effect of the chloroform used on him, and, for a moment, concentrates on quashing it. On the bright side, he's already sitting up, shackled to a chair--no danger of undignified choking.

When he opens his eyes again, he finds himself in the midst of an interrogation scenario a little too classic to stem from a professional's hands--a bare room in a basement, a metal door with a small glass window, a nondescript table with a comfortable chair opposite the seat he's fastened to. Jack will admit that the lamp turned just so its glare is directed straight into his eyes makes for a nice touch.

He's not surprised when the door opens. The CIA-file photos weren't flattering, but then, they never are. Hamid Abd-ul Mustafa is slimmer in person, more defined; the look of perpetual surprise is wiped off his face. Perhaps it was never there for long to begin with.

"I see you have come to." Little fear and no hesitation. This is at once unexpected and promising. Jack prefers his opponents to have a clear purpose; it makes it easier for him to discern and deflect it while obscuring his own motives.

"What have you done to her? Is my cousin alright? Allah be my witness, if you've laid a hand on her--"

"You can't fool me. You can stop abusing the Turkish language, however."

Mustafa speaks English with an accent, but it's soft and tempered, courtesy of Harrow and Cambridge. He stares at Jack over his neatly folded hands.

"I know you think you are very smart. You are not."

Not something Jack hears every day. For the moment, though, Mustafa merely echoes the disapproving voices in the back of his mind. The decision against back-up or surveillance was perfectly rational, but the shortcomings in surveying the perimeter and making the hostiles long before their assault were not.

Jack knows why he was so unprofessional.

"The girl. You." Mustafa's eyes narrow. "You're not Turks. I know you're just infidels trying to steal the _tabaruk_."

Could it be advantageous to keep up this farce? Nadia will comply with protocol and adhere to their legend for lack of a better one; he might at least be able to buy her time by following suit. On the other hand, the man in front of him isn't asking, probing, or questioning. Jack recognises a statement informed by knowledge.

"You thought you could trick us, and I have to confess that you were clever. Who sent you? Mossad?" The corner of his mouth curls in distaste. "CIA?"

Funny how the SDECE, BND, or MI-6 don't get blamed nearly as often as they should.

"Playing dead, are you?" A darker note in Mustafa's voice now. "Useless; I know you've seen the Signs and followed them. Smashed one of them. But you can't destroy the truth--it will always be preserved in the minds of the dutiful and recognised by those who have the eyes to see."

Galata Tower. Nadia had defaced what had been carved into the stone of its walls, but the mechanism that protected the hidden clue? So simple others would have discovered it: An architectural joke for the staff, their little secret, not to be shared with the pesky tourists. Of course, the friendly if somewhat intense countrymen who came bearing weapons in order to enhance their memory would be a different matter.

But while a gun pressed to a young waiter's temple may jog his memory, it cannot procure what his brain had never stored away in the first place: the particular shape of the twin tombstones, the word in the upper right corner written in a language he would only know from Qu'ran school, if at all.

"Your silence serves no purpose." A note of urgency; Mustafa's leans forward almost imperceptibly. "Just tell me about the last Signs-- the tombstones, what you found in Süleymaniye."

So Nadia has not been forthcoming with this information--yet.

He isn't particularly worried about himself at this point. Sydney and Vaughn, already on orange alert after they missed scheduled check-in, should intervene long before Mustafa's torture could make him even contemplate sharing intel--falsified intel, at that--but Nadia is a different matter. Her past suggests excellent coping mechanisms, her present work courage, but Jack has seen older, more experienced agents crack under torture, and the situation is too volatile to let the relic fall into Mustafa's hands. This leaves him with two viable options. The easiest and safest for him would be to break down slowly and keep talking for a while--take up their flimsy legend and skilfully weave in a few strands that will mislead Mustafa for the time being. Every minute Jack spends in this room, however, heightens the chance that somewhere in the vicinity, one of Mustafa's hired brutes will decide to handle Nadia's interrogation. Handle Nadia.

Jack does not consider himself the sort of agent who will let his partner in the field suffer unduly.

Nadia comes to in darkness.

She's lying on a lumpy mattress--not bound and fully clothed. Breathing a sigh of relief, she takes inventory: chilled, unable to see anything, and plagued by a dull headache the origin of which can be found in the lump on her temple, but it could be worse. Nadia sits up slowly. The pain in her arm exists on the very edge of her awareness, but there are other things to worry about, other people.

No reason to assume Jack hasn't been taken to the same place. She hopes he's neither hurt nor still unconscious, but seeing as either is possible, it is her top priority to search for and, if necessary, rescue him.

Right now, unfortunately, she's still in a cell, certainly a room in a basement. It's not so much the lack of light—windows can be barred and shuttered completely--but the stale air, the low temperature. When she reaches out and is met by a cold stone surface, her fingertips come away covered with a fine film of moisture from the humidity seeping through subterranean walls.

She stands. The mattress is lying next to the wall; four steps carry her to the other side. From the corner of this wall, it's another five steps to the other wall.

There's a door, wooden and strong, intricate carvings alternating with smooth polish; she can feel its age under her hands. They don't build massive doors like this anymore, but Nadia has no time to reminisce about carpentry in days of yore. After a quick search for other possible exits, she returns to the door. No sound from outside, but that says little about guards or the lack thereof.

Her surroundings do tell her that she's not in the custody of the Turkish police--unless their jail accommodation has been downgraded drastically; with European Union accession as the carrot dangled before the Turkish administration, Nadia wagers the human rights situation hasn't detoriated quite this badly, though.

No time to worry why she's fallen into the hands of Mustafa's goon; more important to find out how she can escape her makeshift prison in this Ottoman mansion by the river. There doesn't seem to be a way to open this door from the inside...but she will certainly be prepared for the moment someone opens it from the outside.

After a blissfully short time, Mustafa seems to have realised that Jack is not prone to talking, and leaves--only to return with two of the usual suspects from Süleymaniye Cemetery, the wiry fellow and the one with the slight perspiration problem.

Mustafa turns to the latter, switches back to Turkish.

"Kemal? Go and get the girl." A sideways glance at their captive. "In the mean time, Cenk and I will see if this one talks when we become a little more persuasive."

Tedious. Jack doesn't bother to watch Kemal leave. Cenk will have his grudging attention far too soon.

"I knew you were one of you bastards when you left the cemetery with the girl."

Cenk steps forward, puts his palms flat one table. Big hands for a man of his size, with gleaming silver rings on every finger. He's close enough that Jack can feel his nervous energy. His anticipation.

"When she started walking around, I realised she'd been at the Tower, too, when we were just a bit too late and only saw you leave--really, what are the chances of a body like that running around in all the right places?"

A grin that's full of crooked teeth and malice.

"But you know all about that body and all the right places, I bet. I hear what you told Mr. Mustafa here. Cousin? You're shitting me. And fucking her."

Jack freezes.

"Well, she'll be here in a little while; I'm sure I can come up with some…interrogation techniques, just for her." Cenk actually winks. "Maybe you'd like to watch? Might learn something, old man."

With cool, perfect clarity, Jack watches the shift of expression on Mustafa's face--lips tightly drawn, eyes dark and wide; finally, he looks like the man on the surveillance photos. Without another word, he opens the door and steps out.

It falls shut with a soft click.

Cenk looks up, taps his nose thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off Jack. The only one, certainly, but he's definitely pleased. "A man of faith, Mr. Mustafa. Me, now, I'm just a soldier of fortune. And the girl--yeah, she's what I consider good fortune."

Again, he inches closer. Looking past him, Jack can see shadowed movements behind the glass.

"Of course, I'm not a bad man. If you tell me what you found in Süleymaniye before Kemal comes back with her, I'll leave her be. Won't touch her, no."

An exaggerated hands-up gesture.

"So, it's all up to you. Mr. Mustafa says you're Mossad, Kemal says you're CIA. Know what I say?" Another grin. "I say, who the hell cares for that as long as you care for her?"

He doesn't seem fazed by Jack's lack of a response. Hands in his pockets, he strolls around the table, approaches him from the side.

"Yeah, you're playing it tough. Well, as I said--your responsibility."

The strike is a lazy one, just a knuckle-first swing at the side of his face; it hardly comes as a surprise but is still jarring, a sudden shock to his system.

This will not end well.

Cenk steps back into his field of vision, flexes his fingers. Distantly, Jack notes that there is no blood on his rings--beautifully ornamented Turkish silverware. He doesn't need a mirror to know that his face is a different matter; he could feel the sharp rip of skin, can now feel warm wetness trickling down the side of his face.

"Might as well have some warm-up till the real fun starts. Feel free to interrupt me anytime and tell me what the last clue was all about; I'll stop. See, am I not nice?"

Movement behind him. Jack can hear the rustle of fabric, something plastic.

"I bet you're a Christian--would you like some help turning the other cheek?" He makes a fist, pushes Jack's chin roughly so that his unbloodied cheek faces the light. "No? Okay. I got something better."

In front of his face, on Cenk's palm, a miniscule blue plastic box.

He opens it, takes out a needle so fine Jack has to squint to see it. He closes the box and shakes it to let Jack hear how many are left. He winks. With what is supposed to be a kindly smile, Cenk steps around him again, lets his fingertips trail over Jack's immobilised, outstretched hands. He strokes and then gently lifts Jack's index finger.

"This might sting a little."

No amount of expectation can prepare Jack for the object shoved under his fingernails--it feels as if the needle is endless, just the tip of a shard of ice travelling across nerve endings with the speed of light, filling every inch of his body with sharpness. Jack's head jerks back involuntarily; he can swallow the sound he nearly makes but he cannot help the fact he has to blink to clear his eyes.

"You could tell me," Cenk suggests conversationally, "what the clue is. Then I would not have to keep pulling these out of the box." He shakes the box again, opens it, and reaches in to pull another pin out.

The door opens, and Mustafa enters.

"_Enough_--the girl, she should be here any minute; she will tell us what we need to know. Unfasten him and bring him to the high-security cell."

Cenk doesn't complain, but when he bends down to remove the needle, he pulls it out at an angle.

Jack exhales; when Cenk jerks him up on the chains, he stumbles forwards on legs that have gone slightly numb after the prolonged lack of sufficient circulation. The metal bites into his wrists, and he shuffles along slowly, the chains tight.

"Move!"

A few slow steps into the corridor, head low, Jack winces, drops down a little to rub his left leg with two hands. Cenk, behind him, snorts in derision but doesn't stop moving, stepping next to of Jack instead.

Handcuffs may be constraints, and the chain a leash, but it's not prudent to forget that it has two ends. With one smooth movement, Jack steps back; the sudden jerk makes Cenk stumble sideways before he thinks of letting go. Jack's twist has already spun him off-balance, so side-stepping Cenk is child's play, and flipping the chain connecting the handcuffs over the man's head from behind is even easier.

Jack rams his knee into Cenk's back and pulls the chain tight around his throat. The choked sound from the other man's throat is oddly musical to his ears. Jack will let him sing one more stanza.

"Where is the woman?"

A twitch and a nod; there is some frantic scrambling for purchase on the floor, but for Cenk, movement is impossible without strangling himself. Jack eases his hold, a little, and Cenk inhales with a gasp.

"Down the corridor, left--right--left, very last door. Please, let me go, don't--"

The rest is cut off when Jack jerks once, hard. The sound of cracking vertebrae is not quite hidden by the clank of the chains.

Quickly, Jack hooks the keychain out of the man's right pocket and unlocks his handcuffs. The Glock from the holster beneath the jacket is a welcome weight in Jack's hand; he can already hear footsteps coming down the corridor just around the corner.

Standing up, he swings the weapon around, aims--

--and stares into the barrel of Nadia's gun.

They both freeze. Nadia is the first to lower the Beretta she's holding.

"Jack." She's also the first to crack a smile, wide and relieved. "I got your messenger."

He can feel part of the tension leaving his body and the warmth of her eyes dispel the chill of the basement; this reaction--while far more pleasant--is more unsettling than the events of the previous hour.

Slowly, he lowers the weapon and puts it away.

"Good. I knew you would be able to deal with--"

Nadia has stopped listening, a frown marring her brow. She briefly glances at the dead body to their feet but, looking at him again, steps closer. Gentle fingers touch his cheek.

"You're bleeding—what happened? Who did this to you? Are you alright?"

"Just a minor cut. It doesn't matter now. We must leave."

She looks doubtful for a moment, lets her hand lingers longer than strictly necessary. But after searching his face for clues and not finding any, she simply nods.

They quickly walk down the corridor leading away from the cells.

"Nadia, did anyone follow you?"

"No. The only person I met was the goon who told me Hamid Abd-ul Mustafa wanted me to join an interrogation session with--his words were 'the stubborn bastard'."

Another flash of amusement in her eyes, but it's slowly replaced by concern. At the next corner, they hesitate, then turn right, following the faint draft.

"Jack, how did we end up abducted in spite of the mosque security guards' intervention?"

"_Because of_ the mosque security guards' intervention."

On her face, incredulity and a flash of anger. "Doesn't aiding and abetting religious extremists go just a little above and beyond the call of _umma_ solidarity?"

"I don't imagine it had much to do with the worldwide community of Islam." Jack leads her around the corner and rifles through the keys on Cenk's chain to find the proper one. "Mustafa is no fool. He has both the mind and the means to prepare and made sure--beforehand--that the security force would not only stand by but act."

Next to him, Nadia exhales slowly, and her her warm breath tickles his ear, momentarily distracting him from methodically inserting each key in the lock. "They pretended to be the police--undercover."

Finally. He presses down the handle, and the wide metal door swings open. "That, or they pretended to be MIT."

"Fanatics disguised as Turkish secret service?" Nadia follows him outside, squints into the early evening sun to scan the savaged garden, the old mansion they just exited. "Here I thought I'd seen it all."

"A common but usually false assumption."

The dazzling flash of her smile is the only response she offers. Passing him, she carefully starts to walk down the gravel path, away from the house. She turns around. "Are you coming?"

Her eyes still bear the traces of that smile. Jack nods slowly. "Of course."


End file.
